


Imaginary Numbers

by Poppelganger



Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Confusing, F/M, Gen, Incredibly Vague, Spoilers, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:00:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2062050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poppelganger/pseuds/Poppelganger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sho Minamimoto finds an imaginary number in Shibuya and tries desperately to understand it.  </p>
<p>"Romance" is definitely not the right word to use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imaginary Numbers

**Author's Note:**

> I will admit that this is a little short and a lot confusing and no questions are answered because I would like to potentially expand it into something more. Right now, though, this is all there is.

Everyone is running and screaming and fighting for their lives against wolves and rhinoceroses, and she is leaning against the railing behind the Hachiko statue obliviously, picking at the dirt under her nails.

“Hectopascal!” the megaphone squeals as the week’s Game Master stomps over to her intending to strike the fear of the Reapers into her.

She straightens up when he’s within arm’s reach, turns on her heel as though ignoring him, and vanishes into the midday light, leaving him standing confused, mouth open, static crackling. 

*

The Game Master operates on a rule of threes, because three is an excellent number.

The first time something happens, it’s a fluke.

The second time something happens, it’s a coincidence.

It’s only the third time something happens that investigation is necessary, so the third time he sees her, he tries to go about it delicately, keeps his distance but maintains an imposing stance, and manages to get a few bits of information that don’t add up.

The mirage’s name is Saki, and she is not playing the Reaper’s Game.  Sho is still wondering if that’s even allowed, if there’s some protocol he’s supposed to enact or if there’s an imaginary number somewhere in the equation that’s going to derail everything.  But she’s there, day after day, seven o’clock sharp when the last of the players are scrambling to finish difficult missions.  He finds himself telling time by her arrival.

“I’m trying to find myself,” she tells him, not in the tone of one who is merely self-searching, but in one that implies that she’s actually, really lost something.

“Why here?” he asks, “The world is full of numbers.”

“Not just anywhere will do,” she insists, and sits on the railing, kicking her legs beneath her.  “It has to be here.”

“But why?”

She shrugs and picks at the dirt caked beneath her nails again.

Sho is nothing if not inquisitive when he’s interested in something, and an imaginary number—for now, that’s what he’s calling her, because all of the other digits are supposed to play the Game, he’s almost certain—is definitely interesting.

*

Another Game draws to a close, and Sho uses his spare time to plan how he’ll overthrow the system, learning the dark arts from an unusual barista and street artist.  “Ever heard of imaginary numbers in the Game?” he asks casually.

“Imaginary numbers?” the man repeats, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he scrawls a symbol onto the concrete.  “What, do you mean rule breakers?”

“No.”  Sho pauses.  “Probably not.”

“Now and then, there are people who interact with the UG in strange ways,” his accomplice says, “Usually unintentionally.  It’s more a problem of perception than anything.  If you feel like you don’t belong, it’s easy to find yourself somewhere else.”

He doesn’t really understand, but Hanekoma is not a person who likes to elaborate, so he leaves it at that. 

“But it’s been a while since we’ve had someone like that come through here,” he goes on, “I’ll admit, I hadn’t even noticed.”

Sho is about to offer a description, which is on the tip of his tongue but not quite at the forefront of his mind.  He’s not sure he’s ever gotten a good look at her, or if people like that can even be remembered.  He remembers what she said she was looking for.

“Is it possible to lose yourself?” he asks.

Hanekoma glances back over his shoulder, grinning slightly.  “Well, of course,” he says, “Isn’t that what you were planning on doing?”

*

One evening, he finds her beneath the Underpass instead, staring up at the concrete and listening to cars pass overhead.  He has to admit, like this, she looks a bit like a ghost.

“Did you die?” he asks.

“No,” she says, and looks over, “Did you?”

He’s not quite sure how to answer that, so he just chooses not to.

*

A change rolls over Shibuya, and there are whispers of revolution and end times.  But Sho doesn’t listen to those whispers, because he’s lent his ear to a fallen angel and is far too busy plotting his own ascension to worry about everyone else’s downfall.

Saki has no way of knowing any of this, not when she’s not even a player, not even supposed to be in the UG, preoccupied with finding whatever “self” she thinks she’s lost, and yet, the next time he sees her, she looks at him with disapproval.

“What’s that look for?” he snaps, almost anxious.

She looks at him, then down at her hands.  “I thought I heard something,” she whispers, “Like a vending machine falling on somebody.”

He doesn’t know what she means, and neither does she.

*

Understanding, Sho has heard, is essential to a healthy, normal relationship.

If there’s truth to that, he doesn’t really care, because he’s not the type for healthy, normal relationships, anyway. 

“I wonder sometimes,” she says, standing at the crosswalk in front of the bus terminal.  “If I’m ever going to find myself.  I don’t even know where I lost it.”

He hardly understands a word that comes out of her mouth, and she has a hard time understanding him.  Somehow, they can’t seem to stop spending time together, even though she’s translucent and sometimes disappears and the only reason he knows she’s still there is because he can hear her talking. 

They cross the street, and pause only momentarily when they see a pair of teenagers making out against a shadowed alley wall up ahead.  They keep walking. 

She looks up at him.  “Have you ever kissed someone before?” she asks.

He doesn’t bother answering.

She shrugs and doesn’t say herself. 

He thinks being misunderstood is at least something they have in common.

*

“Come here,” he calls with one crooked, taboo-black finger, leaning against the railing with his back to the sunset.  She’s entranced, watching Sho’s transformation from man to Reaper in the twilight, black, jagged wings unfolding behind him.  He told her a day ago that they were going to try something, not because either of them are particularly attached to one another, but because they both at least trust the other enough for this.

She looks up and meets his eyes.

“Closer,” Sho murmurs, and pulls her by the wrist when she doesn’t move, her feet tripping over one another as she falls into his chest and the proximity makes her heart act like a bird beating itself against the side of a cage in suicidal ecstasy.  She reads his eyes for all of the intentions they hold.

“Now what?” she asks.

Sho actually isn’t sure. 

Saki stands on her tiptoes.  “Like this?” she asks. 

He still doesn’t move.

She puts her hands on his shoulders.  “L-like this?” she asks, nervousness finally betrayed by her voice.

Sho is a person who understands predator-prey interaction better than that of one person to another, and her anxiety is what finally gets him to move.

*

A week passes.

Saki waits, but no one comes.

And when someone finally does, it’s not who she was hoping for.

*

They’re at an impasse.

“Sho,” she asks in a voice so choked that tears threaten at any minute, “Did you die?”

“No,” he sneers, “Did you?”  His coat is torn at the shoulders, hanging open to show where he’s let the taboo take him over. 

It starts to drizzle.  He can’t tell if it’s rain or tears on her cheeks.  “Yes.”

*

She acts like it’s not him the next time, and the time after that.

“Don’t you remember?” he demands, “That time on the roof?  When we were at the Underpass?”

She shakes her head and just backs away from him.

“Just wait,” he urges, “Just wait, the system is garbage and I’m going to change it.”  He doesn’t know why it matters so much that she know; he has nothing to prove to her.

“No,” she tells him, “It’s too late now.  I told the truth, but you lied.”  Self-consciously, she picks at the dirt under her nails.

“What does that even mean?” he snaps and grabs her wrist in a lightning-fast movement, and she freezes, eyes wide.  “What have you _ever_ meant?  I've never been able to solve for a single thing you’ve said!”

She looks at him with distrust.  Slowly, he lets her go. 

“I’ll show you,” he promises as he turns on his heel to leave, “Just wait.” 

And she does, even though she already knows nothing will come of it.

*

The sound of a vending machine falling over reverberates into the abyss and back.  The first time she heard it was as an echo from the future. 

She knows the second time, it’s really happening, and it makes her want to cry.

*

The bells above the door at a certain café on Cat Street jingle and the fallen angel glances up, pauses, and a curious smile works its way to his face.  “Why can I get for you?”

“I’m trying to find myself,” she admits, glancing around the empty room as she makes her way to the bar.  The fallen angel leans over the counter, head propped up on one hand.

“Yeah?  I suppose this is as good a place as any to look,” he thinks aloud, “Any luck so far?”

“No, not yet.”  She looks down at her hands, and he follows her gaze as she reaches, about to pick at the dirt under her nails, but they both startle to a sound that goes unheard by the rest of Shibuya; an echo from the future.  Slowly, their gazes meet again.

“Hear something?” he asks with a smile, even more interested now.

The eyes of Shibuya’s mirage sparkle to life again as though she’s caught sight of the self she’s been searching for.  “Yeah,” she says softly, “Like someone picking up a vending machine.”


End file.
